


Collision

by ice_evanesco



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-11 04:48:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ice_evanesco/pseuds/ice_evanesco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the high society world of Mycroft Holmes collides with the down-to-earth life of Greg Lestrade, thanks to Sherlock, they initially loathe each other. Then things change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Two Holmes are Two Too Many

**Author's Note:**

> All usual disclaimers apply. Sherlock Holmes belongs to ACD, the BBC rendition belongs to Gatiss and Moffat

Greg Lestrade groaned and rubbed his eyes, exhausted by the sound of Donovan and Anderson squabbling _again_. He rather wished that they would finally realize how much they fancied each other and just went and got it on. He didn’t exactly advocate adultery (on Anderson’s part) nor did he think office romances were _completely_ okay (on both their parts), but anything to stop their childishness was a good thing.

How these two could act like lovebirds right next to a body in advanced stages of decomposition was beyond him, but really illustrated to him how love, or rather, lust, gave a person serious tunnel-vision. He turned to the body again, scowling down at it as though all the troubles of his life were caused by it.

Just as he bent down to take a closer look, a commotion started up, as someone tried to bypass the police tape – damn those reporters – again. A deep baritone could be heard, and Greg was about to tune it out when he realized what that voice was saying, “Cause of death – multiple stab wounds to the neck and torso, obviously, and the killer is someone that she knows –“ Wait. She? Greg could hardly tell the gender of the body, considering how decomposed it was. He turned to see the person mouthing off outside of the tape.

Crack addict. The track marks on his arm, and the fact that the other person was so obviously high told him that. It didn’t take a genius. Lestrade walked over to the tape, curious and wary despite the fact that the other man was already restrained by two of his colleagues.

The other’s eyes fell on him, pale-blue, an alien shade, especially with the blood-shot sclera. “Detective Inspector Lestrade. Age 40, chain smoker, recently increased intake of nicotine to two packs a day. You haven’t had any rest for two days. You’re married, but you’re worried that your wife is cheating on you, and that along with your cases have been causing you insomnia.”

“Jesus Christ.” Lestrade stared at the young man. He was only in his late twenties, with a head of dark brown curls that looked like a tornado had hit it. He looked emaciated, but then all drug addicts did.

“The body only looks like it’s decomposed; it’s actually melted down with sulfuric acid, which heightened the rate of decomposition. Door is unlocked, no sign of forced entry shows that the killer and victim were acquainted. The victim’s hand bears imprint of her finger nails, it shows that the relationship between the killer and the victim was hostile even before the murder. The victim was the mistress, and the killer was the jealous wife who wanted her dead. You’re looking for a woman with dyed red hair, 5’6” and a co-worker of the deceased.” The young man rattled off.

All the police officers were silent, staring at the insane addict before them. Greg was the first to find his voice. “You’re coming with us.” A pair of handcuffs snapped over the skeletal wrists. “I hereby arrest you for consumption and possession of drugs, as well as on suspicion of murder. You know way too much to be uninvolved in this.”

The other man glared at him, before snapping, “Are you that obtuse?” as he was bundled into the police car. “Or is it because I pointed out all your problems in front of your force?”

“It’s got nothing to do with that!” Greg snapped as he started the car.

“She is, you know. Cheating on you.” The young man said, as the car pulled away from the curb.

Greg tried not to glare at him too much.

 

Apparently the man sulking before him was notorious for crashing crime scenes and solving them. Some of the other officers raised their eyebrows and some even went, “You again,” and rolled their eyes. The young man had just sneered, a small derisive curl of his lip.

Greg sat across the man in the interrogation room, reading his files out loud, “Sherlock Holmes, 28.”

“Yes, I know who I am.” Sherlock interrupted, rolling his eyes.

“Graduated Eton in 1992, entered Cambridge in 1993.” Lestrade’s eyebrows raised at the next line. “Studied Forensic Pathology and Chemistry. Dropped out in 1996. Arrested for cocaine possession in 1998, 1999, 2000.” There was a long list of offences, and it seemed that this genius got himself arrested once every 2 months or so. “And a list of offences related to tampering with evidence and obstruction of justice. Woah.”

Sherlock’s face puckered up into a sour look of irritation.

Lestrade gave a short laugh, “You really are a piece of work. You’re obviously old money, to even get into Eton, and smart enough to make it into Cambridge. Then you threw it all away for a drug addiction?” Sherlock’s lip raised in a snarl, and Lestrade knew he had broached a sensitive issue with the younger man.

Just then, a knock sounded on the door, and Sally Donovan entered, “Someone’s looking for you. Wants to bail that freak out.” She jerked a thumb at Sherlock, “Says his name is Mycroft Holmes.” Sherlock went very stiff and still at the name, his face frozen in angered humiliation.

“Two Holmes?” Lestrade stood, eyebrows raised, “With the amount of trouble one brings, two Holmes are two too many.”

 

Mycroft Holmes was a universe away from Sherlock Holmes.

If not for their last name, and some superficial similarities, Lestrade would never have thought that the shabby young man in the interrogation room and this posh bureaucrat were even the slightest bit related. Then he opened his mouth.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, I demand the release of my younger brother.”

Related. Undoubtedly related. No one could inject such a huge amount of disdain and contempt into a simple request- no, a demand. Lestrade found himself growing thoroughly sick of the Holmes brothers.

“Release him? He’s in possession of cocaine, for heaven sakes.” Lestrade said, his arms crossed, raising one hand to rub at his temples.

“I am fully aware of that fact, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft’s voice was lower, tense.

“Then you should know that I cannot release him.” Lestrade’s voice rang with a tone of finality.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and the contempt was heaped upon Lestrade tenfold. The aristocratic man swept past him.

 

“Unreasonable?” Lestrade could not believe his ears. “Did you just call me unreasonable?”

He ignored the fact that he was possibly shouting at someone very, _very_ important. He glared at his superior, and turned to glare at the umbrella toting man beside him.

“Look, you – ” He growled, “You – You’re the unreasonable one here. You barge into my office; demand that your brother – who is possession of cocaine, may I remind you – be released without repercussions, ignoring the law, which I am sure you are fully aware of. And you just called me unreasonable?”

The corners of Mycroft’s lips tightened.

“Now, Greg, you have to understand –” His superior was shooting concerned glances at the politician before him.

“Yes, sir, I understand – I understand fully well that the rich and influential are governed under a different set of laws that we mere mortals are not privileged enough to enjoy.” Lestrade said bitterly. “Laws in which cocaine possession and consumption are mere blips, and in which murder is probably overlooked.” He turned to leave, but was stopped by Mycroft’s amused chuckle. He whirled back and snapped, “What?”

“I assure you, Gregory Lestrade, my brother hasn’t committed a single murder in his life.”

“Says you.” Greg retorted, and stomped out of the office, storming back to his own.

Mycroft followed him, “In all honesty, he hasn’t. Now, will you please start with the paperwork?”

“In all honesty? And you sir, you are a shining paragon of honesty and integrity, are you?” Greg snapped, pulling out forms and grabbing a pen, “You both are shining epitomes of virtue, yeah?”

“Detective Inspector, I said my brother hadn’t committed murder. I did not include myself.” Mycroft sat in the chair across from him elegantly, smiling.

Greg’s mental processes ground to a halt. He stared at Mycroft Holmes dumbly, before the other man gestured to his paperwork with a gentle, “Make haste, please, Detective Inspector. I have a meeting to attend.”

“Jesus Christ, what have I done to deserve people like you both in my life –” Greg mumbled and turned back to filling out the papers as Mycroft chuckled in amusement.

 

As both Holmes brother argued their way out of the Scotland Yard, Sherlock glaring murder at Mycroft, Greg Lestrade could only pinch the bridge of his nose and try to stave off the massive migraine brought upon by the pair. 

 


	2. Crack-addict Detective, Hidden Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Greg realizes that Mycroft may or may not have his home bugged when he lets Sherlock crash there, and Mycroft may or may not ogle at Greg wandering around his apartment naked. But mostly it's Mycroft being thankful that Greg's helping Sherlock out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The usual! This belongs to ACD and BBC (Moffat and Gatiss).

“Christ, Holmes!” Gregory Lestrade shouted in exasperation when he spotted that mop of dark brown curls just two weeks later at yet another crime scene. He stormed to the cordon.

It was probably the worst possible time for Sherlock Holmes to make an appearance. Following his first meeting with the great Mycroft Holmes, ruler of annoying umbrella toting politicians, Greg had found himself deskbound with a huge stack of rejected paperwork. It had descended from “them higher-ups” (damn higher-ups, more like), and had taken a week and a half to clear. He had also magically had all his on-going cases redirected to the other DIs, and this was the first case he was out on after his “punishment”. He had no doubt it was some form of punishment, because Mycroft Holmes had seemed too pleasant and smiled too much for someone who had been insulted to his face.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.” Sherlock greeted.

“Please, Holmes, fuck off.” Greg said, but it sounded far too much like pleading to his own ears, and from the sudden smirk that had crossed Sherlock’s face, far too much like pleading to Sherlock too.

“Victim; 12, female, garroted with an E-String.” Sherlock said, his expression returning to his default bored expression.

Greg frowned, “E-string?”

“From a violin.” Sherlock rolled his eyes like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “The thinness of the wound is indicative of that.”

Greg nodded, slowly. They stood for a moment, before Greg took a cigarette out, and lit it. Sherlock’s eyes brightened, and the stick vanished from Greg’s hand and reappeared in his. “Oy –” The older man put up a token protest, but lit up another cigarette.

“She was killed by her father. The man and his girlfriend hated the victim, you can see from the fading bruises on her arms, legs and face. She reminded them too much of his ex-wife. ” Sherlock said, momentarily obscured by an exhaled plume of smoke.

Greg’s face turned dark with disgust and anger. He turned to Sherlock and looked at him for a moment, then sighed and said, “Thank you. We’ll take the rest from here.”

The silence was oddly comfortable, both men lost in their thoughts and the enjoyment of their cigarettes.

“I would never have suspected her father.” Lestrade finally said.

“You put too much faith in familial bonds.”

Greg only gave a shrug in acknowledgement. He thought of his own family, and couldn’t imagine hurting anyone of them, however annoying that his siblings might have been. He couldn’t even imagine hurting his wife, even though Sherlock was definitely right in his revelation of her affairs. He had moved out instead, pending the divorce. Greg put out his cigarette and said, “Alright, Holmes, fuck off, I don’t want to have to arrest you again.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Your brother is an annoying sod, alright?” Greg grumbled. Sherlock stared at him, before the younger man’s lip curled into an amused grin.

“I know, Lestrade.” The young man drawled out, “I grew up with him.”

“Yes, that’s why you’re so fucked up too. Now, fuck off already, I don’t want his attention on me.” Lestrade stuck his hands in his pockets, and went back behind the police cordon, leaving a grinning Sherlock.

-

Greg watched Sherlock walking off, having solved – “You’re looking for a man about 5’10”, blonde and with a limp” – yet another crime with his miraculous intellect.

“Hey! Holmes!” He called out. The younger man paused, and half- turned. “You clean?” He asked, approaching the other, taking long strides against the wind. Aside from their first meeting, Greg had never seen the younger Holmes high since.

Sherlock nodded an affirmative. He did look much healthier, certainly, and as he rolled up his sleeve, Lestrade saw that there were no fresh marks. The inspector nodded, and Sherlock tugged the sleeve down. 

“Look, you’ve been a great help, with all these cases, and I’ve been discussing with my superiors –” Sherlock gave him a sharp look and his expression showed distaste “Not your brother, Holmes, my current mission in life is to stay out of his radar. Anyway, talking to my superiors, and they gave me the green light to call you in for cases. You’ll be paid for it, of course.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up in pleasure that his talents had been recognized, but said, “I don’t want the boring ones.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes, “I know. That’s why you’ll only be called in for a case-by-case basis.”

Sherlock nodded, a slight smile playing at the corners of his lips, “That sounds… amenable.”

Greg grinned, “Great. You’ll be issued a check for this one.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened his surprise.

“Now, conditions.” Greg’s voice turned business-like. You are to stay clean, and I’ll make sure of that with monthly drugs raids on your apartment until further notice.”

Sherlock cleared his throat, “No apartment.”

“What?” Greg faltered.

“I – have no place of residence.” Sherlock stuck his hands in his coat pockets.

“You’re homeless?” Greg repeated, staring at the younger man. Sherlock glance skyward, and nodded. “Damn. Well, you’re free to crash in my apartment, and we can find one for you.”

“I have no objection to your suggestion.” Sherlock said.

-

Greg sat in his office, pleased with the outcome of his conversation with Sherlock. Despite the younger man’s undoubtedly acerbic tongue, and the fact that he barely tolerated humans, Greg was somewhat fond of the genius that was Sherlock Holmes.

Just then, his office phone gave a shrill ring, and Lestrade jumped, his thoughts returning to the present. “Lestrade speaking.” He answered his phone.

“Detective Inspector, this is Mycroft Holmes.” The velvety voice of Sherlock’s elder brother was hardly forgettable. Greg cursed himself; so much for staying under the radar.

“What can I do for you, Mr Holmes?” Greg asked, trying to stay as polite as possible. The posh man seemed to irritate him, even with his affected politeness, or rather, because of it. No one was that polite all the time. It had to be some bloody act.

“It‘s not what you can do, D.I Lestrade. It’s what you’re _doing_.” Mycroft replied.

Greg blinked, the conversation suddenly above his comprehension, “What I’m doing?”

“You’re helping Sherlock to turn his life around, Detective Inspector, and you have my utmost gratitude for that.” Mycroft said.

“It’s nothing- I just did what I could. If the higher-ups didn’t approve, I wouldn’t have been able to do anything anyway.” Greg said, uncomfortable at being given unwarranted credit.

“It’s because you suggested it. Never underestimate the power that you hold, Inspector. Without your suggestion, there would be nothing to be approved.” Mycroft’s voice sounded very pleased. Greg’s eyes narrowed as the pieces clicked into place.

“You mean, there would be nothing for _you_ to approve.” He said, irritably.

“If you say so, Inspector.” Mycroft chuckled softly. “I am also aware that you have offered your home as a temporary abode to my brother.”

“He said he had nowhere to go.”

“He was living with me.”

“If I were living with you, I’d say I had nowhere to go too.” Greg snapped. “There’s no way to escape from you, is there? It seems to me that Sherlock doesn’t speak much, if at all to you, and yet you know everything about him. It’s like he’s got no privacy.”

There was silence from the other end of the line. They both took a deep breath at the same time. Greg wondered if he should apologize.

“I care for my brother.” Mycroft finally said.

“You have a funny way of showing it.” Lestrade retorted, annoyed at the other man’s justification.

“I am not calling you to discuss my flaws, Inspector.” Mycroft said, in a clipped, precise tone.

“Then say what you called to say, and hang up.” Lestrade grumbled.

“I am aware that you are bringing him house-hunting.” Mycroft said, still sounding a little irked, “I have a selection of apartments that would be suitable for him.”

“And why exactly would I use your selection?” Lestrade asked suspiciously, his eyes narrowed, “You could have some form of surveillance to keep an eye on him, cameras, whatever.” It didn’t seem likely that Mycroft would let his brother live alone, and in any peace without some way of keeping an eye on him.

“The apartments are suitable for one person, and are all relatively close to the Yard. As for cameras and surveillance, it would be installed into any flat that he moves to. It’ll just be a little inconvenient to not have access to the flat, but I can easily work around that.” Mycroft murmured.

“That’s an invasion of privacy, and breaking and entering.” Lestrade stated bluntly.

“Yes, it is.” Mycroft’s voice was mild, “But I doubt you’ll be able to file any charges.”

Greg gritted his teeth, and said shortly, “Fine.”

“If it makes you feel any better, Detective Inspector, you can always inform him that I compiled that list.” Mycroft conceded. “He is already resigned to being under watch all the time. It keeps him safe.”

“Safe? Did it keep him safe from drugs?” Lestrade snorted.

A teacup gave a loud _tink_ on the other side of the line, as though set down a little too firmly upon its saucer. The sound of papers being shuffled and flipped suddenly stopped as well, leaving a dead silence. Mycroft’s voice was a soft whisper as he admitted his failure, “No, it didn’t.”

The voice on the other end of the line sounded so anguished, so self-loathing that it gave Lestrade pause, wondering if he had gone too far. Then he sucked in a breath as he realized something. “Did you say any flat that Sherlock moves into?”

“Yes.” Mycroft’s answer was uncharacteristically short for the usually verbose man.

“He’s staying in my apartment.” Lestrade said, a feeling of warmth flooding upwards into his cheek.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what? Yes, you know he’s staying with me? Yes, my apartment is bugged? Yes, what, Mycroft Holmes?!” Lestrade asked, his voice rising in his flustered state. 

“ ** _Yes._** ” Mycroft emphasized the word, and said, “It was nice talking to you, Detective Inspector. I will email you the list by tonight.” He hung up.

Lestrade thought about how he had wandered around his flat the day before in only his boxers because Sherlock was out doing some experiment or another, then groaned and rubbed his temples, saying to his empty office, “They’ll be the end of me, I swear. They’ll kill me some day.”


	3. House-hunting and Telephone Numbers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg turns into Sherlock's unfortunate sitter as they go house hunting, and gets Mycroft's attention for his trouble. The upside is that Greg actually scores a victory against Sherlock.

Greg was on his fifth cigarette of the day, and Sherlock was very, very chipper. The detective shot the consulting detective a glare, knowing Sherlock too well by now to know that he was plotting something. Sherlock turned to Greg, oblivious, or pretending to be, saying, “House Hunting is incredibly entertaining, Lestrade.”

Greg briefly wondered if a death threat would send Big Brother and his sycophants over to drag him to a maximum security holding cell in the middle of nowhere, then said it anyway. “If you keep doing that, I will murder you, Holmes.” Sherlock had insulted every house and potential landlord over the last few weeks of house-hunting, and Greg was at his wits’ end.

Sherlock gave him a wide-eyed look, “You wouldn’t, Greg.” Greg scowled. Sherlock was silent, giving him another innocent expression. “If you did, no one would solve your cases for you.”

Greg tossed his cigarette and stomped it out with a growl.

“And your involvement would be painfully obvious to my brother too.” Sherlock continued, with a smirk.

“If you continue to be quite so trying on my patience, I might even assist Inspector Lestrade.” That velvet purr sounded behind Lestrade, and Greg turned.

“Mr Holmes.” Greg muttered in greeting, with a sullen note of resent. And rightly so, he felt, since Mycroft had left him house-hunting with Sherlock.

“Detective Inspector.” Mycroft inclined his head in return, a smile making him look quite pleasant, but Greg was having none of it.

“Since you’re here, take your brother to see this flat. It’s the last one on your list anyway.” Greg said, folding his arms, resolute.

“Of course, Inspector. It was my intent to do exactly that.” Mycroft said, his eyes landing on Sherlock, who was now deducing everyone who walked past. “Sometimes I forget that not everyone can put up with my brother.” There was a note of disappointment in his words.

Greg bristled, both at the tone and in defense of Sherlock. After prolonged contact with the other (staying with him and working with him), Sherlock had somehow grown on him, and Lestrade was more than used to his little idiosyncrasies. This arrogant berk (brother or not) standing before him was really in need of a punch to the face. Greg took a deep breath; punching diplomats like Mycroft Holmes wasn’t exactly the best way to earn a promotion. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

A look of consternation crossed Mycroft’s face, and uncertainty hovered  for a moment, “I mean that my brother must be a nuisance. I didn’t intend any insult-” His face was arranged in an expression that would have passed for a carefully constructed blankness, but Lestrade had lived with Sherlock and was finding that the brothers weren’t much different in their responses.

“Your brother is the way he is because you don’t let him grow.” Greg’s voice was quiet, firm and brimming with a dangerous anger. “He has hardly any knowledge of the way society works because you’ve always solved his problems for him. Now you’ve created a person who will always be reliant on you to solve problems for him. He deletes knowledge of society, social norms and etiquette because Mycroft will always be there. If you don’t stop with that over-protective bullshit now, he’ll be in serious trouble when and if anything happens to you. Are we clear on this?”

Both brothers were silent, eyes wide, staring at him; Sherlock in a strange mix of horror, indignation and awe, and Mycroft… Mycroft was staring in stunned respect. It seemed as though no one had ever spoken to Mycroft in such a way before, and the politician didn’t quite know how to react. Or perhaps it hadn’t occurred to Mycroft before. For all the times that Sherlock tried to set his boundaries and pull away, Mycroft would react by taking a few steps closer to keep up with his brother, and it was slowly suffocating Sherlock, and preventing his growth from anything beyond a coddled child behavior-wise.

“Yes.” Mycroft said, “Yes, sir.”

Greg snorted loudly and grumbled, “Don’t pull that rank shit on me. We all know who the highest ranking non-official official here is. It’s Greg, or Lestrade.”

“Very well, D-Gregory.” Mycroft murmured, his eyes still fixed on the police officer, as though examining a new anomaly. Greg felt uncomfortable under that scrutiny, but bore with it. After all, Sherlock had scanned him with the same intensity several times before (and embarrassed him, but Lestrade wasn’t that petty to bring it up now). Mycroft suddenly smiled, “If I’m to address you as Gregory, you must call me Mycroft.”

“Yeah, uh- sure, Mycroft.” Greg said, a little thrown off by this shift in their usually hostile relationship.

Mycroft gave that smile again, that slightly shy smile that made him look years younger, before he turned to Sherlock, “Come along now, brother.”

Sherlock was examining them like some fascinating new strain of bacteria under a microscope with his bright blue eyes; and Greg folded his arms in defense, wanting some form of ward against those eyes. The younger Holmes snapped out of it when Mycroft called him, and turned to Lestrade, whining slightly as though he hadn’t come to some strange conclusion about the two elder men, “You can’t be leaving me with him.”

“Of course I am. Family bonding time, everyone needs it, even Holmeses.” Greg grinned. He had his perfect revenge now, both on Sherlock and on Mycroft. “Have fun.” He turned away and strode off, trying to keep the laughter in.

-

The abandonment of Sherlock to the clutches of his elder brother had of course, come with repercussions. The first was that Sherlock had finally found himself a flat, thanks to Mycroft’s threat of having Sherlock move back into his apartment, or forcibly sent back “home”, wherever that was for the two alien brothers. Needlessly, neither Mycroft’s apartment (“dull, Mycroft locks everything up”) nor “home” (“dreadfully boring, there are never any murders to investigate unless one kills someone themselves”) appealed to the younger Holmes, and he found somewhere willing to take him that Mycroft approved of.

Greg found himself feeling unexpectedly like a relieved parent when he was helping Sherlock to move out. Relieved, because Sherlock had wrecked the flat in his short stay, strewing books everywhere, and leaving a trail of experiments and papers and (in several occasions) glass shards. Greg had soon learned to not go barefoot until he had turned the lights on, and cleared up the mess a bit. He also learnt that milk was a veritable pitfall of bacterial infection, and Sherlock sometimes tried to infect the milk so that Greg would drink it and he could observe. That had gotten Sherlock more than a little yelling, and Greg found a little satisfaction from watching the usually aloof man-child back off with wide blue eyes.

Soon after that, a list of house rules were made, including some that prohibited contaminating everything in the main fridge (Greg had gotten a mini-fridge for Sherlock’s experiments to encourage proper segregation of edibles and decomposing material), and a lax rule for violin playing hours (2 am – 6 am when Greg was home, but if Greg wasn’t , he usually heard from the neighbors the next day).

Both he and Mycroft fussed over Sherlock in their own ways, Greg helping with the actual moving process (because heaven forbid Mycroft Holmes do any hard labor; why, he might even break a nail, and that would be devastating to Britain) and finally discovering the thing that was causing the horrendous stench in his flat- “That’s my experiment on the decomposition rates of eyeballs in anaerobic, dark conditions.” He yelled at the younger man a little, then reminded him to never conduct experiments in his new flat. Of course, he could see from the way Sherlock’s eyes glazed over that the younger man was practically deleting it before his eyes, and resigned himself to keeping a room free for the troublemaker. Mycroft was paying for the rent, and had gotten Sherlock brand new furniture, and a brand new wardrobe of clothes to suit his healthier drug-free frame.

The second repercussion was that Mycroft was being significantly nicer to Greg, for some reason. That kept the Detective Inspector on edge for weeks, not knowing when the elder Holmes would deign to take his revenge for yelling at him in front of his younger brother. Knowing the Holmes brothers, revenge could be served very cold (and in Mycroft’s case, on a poisoned silver platter), and in the most creative and unexpected manner possible. So for weeks, Greg was exceedingly careful, causing Sally to wonder if her boss had “Finally gone ‘round the bend, then?”

It was getting semi-outrageous. It had started with a thank you note.

_Dear Gregory,_

_Thank you for allowing Sherlock to temporarily lodge at your apartment despite the obvious health and sanitation risks. I have paid for a full cleaning of your apartment in lieu of Sherlock’s moving out. Please feel free to contact the number on the attached business card._

_Thank you for your assistance in helping Sherlock search for an apartment as well. I am aware of how trying he can be, and your patience is much appreciated._

_Yours,_

_Mycroft Holmes_

Next, Greg would find himself with warm coffee done exactly to perfection on his table whenever he had a long day. That was pleasant as well, and Greg relished the warm cups of coffee when tackling his paperwork, especially on days with Sherlock-worthy cases.

After that, he would find meals on his table along with the coffee. Whoever who got it for him knew exactly what he was craving as well, which was mildly creepy.

The next week, it escalated into meals being bought for his entire team, in his name. Packets of hot, steaming, savory Chinese take-out were delivered to the office, and his people fell ravenously upon it. He only found out when the cheering had gotten so loud that he was about to step out, only to be smacked by his door when Sally pushed it open to give him his favorite sweet-and-sour pork fried rice. Groaning and tearing up, he grabbed the packet and set it down, clutching at his nose. Sally was grinning, “Sorry, Greg.”

“Yeah, ‘kay. Hurts like fuckin’ hell though.” Greg mumbled.

“Yeah. You strike lottery or something? That was quite a spread you got for us, and all our favorites too.” Sally asked, casually.

“Wha-?” Greg stared at her, “Me?”

“Yeah, the delivery people said you ordered and paid for it.” Sally shrugged.

“I’ll get back to you later.” Greg said hurriedly, then ushered her out and called Sherlock. The niceness had reached critical (and creepy) levels, as far as Greg was concerned, and he needed to put a stop to it.

“What is it now, Lestrade?” Sherlock’s deep drawl spoke of boredom and scorn, the same two ingredients that kept most of the world far, far away.

“Do you have Mycroft’s number? I need to speak to him about something.”  Lestrade asked, briskly, to hide his awkwardness at asking Sherlock for his elder brother’s number like some love sick stalker.

“Certainly.” Sherlock replied, and set something down, glass upon glass.

“Are you doing experiments at your flat?” Lestrade asked, frowning.

“Of course I am, do you think they’ll let me into Bart’s for the whole night?” Sherlock shot back. “In any case, why do you want Mycroft’s number?”

“I want to discuss something.” Greg said, leaning back against his seat and resting his feet on a pile of papers carefully so they wouldn’t topple.

“Sounds very… _persona_ l.” Sherlock accentuated the last word.

Greg felt himself flush, and said, “Just give it to me, will you?”

“Why should I?” Sherlock said.

“If you don’t give it to me, no cases for you, for a month.” Greg said, firmly.

“You wouldn’t.” Sherlock’s voice was a low growl.

“Oh, try me, Sherlock.” Greg said, smirking. Sherlock hung up on him, and a text message arrived with Mycroft’s number.

Lestrade – one, Sherlock – nil.

 


	4. Phone Calls and Lunch Dates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gregory gives Mycroft a call, and ends up with a lunch appointment with the Government. 
> 
> Or as Sherlock would like to put it, "A **date**."

Mycroft Holmes was having a semi-enjoyable day. He had prevented a crisis, almost solved the Greek problem, and got a rare evening off work. He relaxed into his leather loveseat, curled up in a blanket, cradling a hot cup of tea, staring at the fire in the large fireplace. No books today, for Mycroft. He was exhausted, and for once just wanted to enjoy life and his home without distractions.

His ginger hair glowed gently in the firelight, and the only sounds were of the classical music playing softly in the background, and the sips that he took from his cup. It was all peaceful, until his personal phone started ringing. The man set the mug down on the dark-stained oak coffee table, and stood, the blanket falling to reveal the deep blue pajamas he was wearing, heading to the mantelpiece to pick up his phone. What was Sherlock up to now? Was he hurt?

His sense of peace was shattered, and a creeping anxiety lingered at the edge of his normally calm mind. He picked the phone up and frowned.

The number was both familiar, and yet not. He had memorized it at a glance when he read Lestrade’s file. He stared down at it for a moment, before answering, “Mycroft Holmes.”

“Greg here, we need to talk.”

Mycroft settled back down on his couch, and picked up the mug (teacups had no place in the evenings when he was alone), and said in a relaxed tone, “Well, talk away, Gregory.”

Lestrade sighed, “Do you always have to sound like the Queen?”

“I don’t quite follow, Gregory.” Mycroft said placidly, sipping his lavender tea, inhaling the floral aroma.

“Your voice. It’s always so… imperious.” Lestrade said, and Mycroft could hear him take a long sip of coffee.

“Is that what you called to discuss?” Mycroft teased lightly, before saying, “I work in the government, and I have to carry myself in that way.”

“And here I thought you were born speaking like a posh aristocrat.” Lestrade returned the barb, before saying, “You don’t have to buy the whole team food, you know.”  
“I was born screaming and wailing, like every other child.” Mycroft smiled, “A well fed team works more efficiently than a caffeine deficient, grumpy one, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yeah, but it’s expensive…” Gregory trailed off, “And so are all the meals. It’s been what? A month? It’s too much, really.”

“I just wanted to show you my gratitude for you helping to reform my brother. If it hadn’t been for you… “ Mycroft took a deep breath, “I predicted that Sherlock would have been dead within two or three years. His body had already built up such a resistance to the high that he was on the edge of overdosing.”

Lestrade was silent for a long while, before he said, none-too-eloquently, “Well… Damn.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft agreed blandly, drinking his tea, “Even if I were to buy you dinner for the rest of your career, it might not be enough.”

Greg chuckled, “If you want to buy me dinner, ask me out.”

There was a sudden silence as both men realized the implications of Greg’s words.

“No- Uh-I-” Greg sputtered out.

“Very well then.” Mycroft said at the same time.

Silence reigned again, and both men took a calming deep breath. Greg started tapping on his table.

Mycroft cleared his throat, and murmured, “If it is to your convenience, would you like to have lunch with me next Wednesday?”

“Are you serious?” Greg sounded incredulous, and a little shocked.

Mycroft frowned slightly, a crease appearing between his brows, “Is that not sincere enough?”

“No! No – What I mean is – Uh, yeah, sure! Lunch, Wednesday. Sure.” Greg hurriedly said.

Mycroft smiled, “I would ask you out for dinner, but as others might misconstrue us and spread rumors about us dating, I think you’d rather go for a simple lunch meeting. After all, I could just be asking you out to keep tabs on my brother.”

Greg chuckled, “Sure. You really do think of everything.”

“I calculate and weight out all possibilities before taking action, Gregory.” Mycroft smiled, “Rumors won’t affect me, but working in the Scotland Yard, it would certainly change others’ perceptions about you.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Greg said, his voice carrying a note of heaviness at the intolerance of some of his colleagues. They were supposed to be impartial, but some officers were vocal about their disdain.

Mycroft said lightly, “Come on now, don’t dwell on unpleasant things. Are you opposed to Japanese food? Or would you prefer Chinese? I’ve noticed you quite like spicy curries, but I don’t much have the stomach for that in the afternoon, unfortunately. Heavy food tends to leave me drowsy, and I wouldn’t want to doze off in the middle of a meeting.”

Greg chuckled, “Oh, do you sleep? I pretty much thought that you and Sherlock both went on and on indefinitely, producing your own energy through nuclear fusion, like stars. I’d like Japanese. Haven’t eaten that in ages.”

Mycroft did laugh, this time. It was a low, throaty chuckle, and he said, in a tone that would have sounded flirtatious from another man, “I’m flattered you think of me quite as self-sufficient as that. Unfortunately, I still require sustenance and rest. Lesser rest than most, certainly; it seems to be a genetic predisposition that Sherlock and I share. However, unlike my younger brother, I enjoy food, and most definitely have a fondness for desserts. Sherlock might insist that I have too much of a fondness, but I am in a healthier state than he.”

Greg grinned, “So, quite normal then?”

“Quite normal.  I do try to not stray too far from the norm. It makes it difficult to be accepted when one is too eccentric.” Mycroft said softly, sipping his lavender tea. It was true, he didn’t get his way in politics being the outlier and the eccentric one. Very rarely had anyone with radical views enter the public realm of politics unless in times of chaos and desperation.

“Well, I think I like your normal. You certainly sound more approachable outside of work, no insult.” Greg said. “I have to go, though. See you on Wednesday.”

Mycroft felt a heat creeping into his cheeks, and smiled, “Yes, I’ll inform you of the location by Monday, latest. It was a pleasure chatting with you.”

“Same.” Greg hung up with that word, and Mycroft found himself giving a silly little grin at his phone.

He had never had a friend before, a proper, normal friend, outside of the upper echelons he was forced to mix with from a very young age. He pressed his knuckles to his lip, hiding the smile, a feeling of excitement fizzing and bubbling in him.

He hadn’t had so much fun since helping in the demolition of the Berlin Wall. He grinned, again, this time at the brick embedded into his fireplace. It was slightly more aged than the others, a slightly different shade, his souvenir from the fall of communism, the last piece of his past in MI6, and the first marker of his career in politics.

Greg was still grinning days after that call to Mycroft. He had expected an argument, or at least coldness, but he seemed to have caught Mycroft in a good, relaxed mood, and was somehow invited out to lunch. He still felt a little befuddled, but decided to accept it as a stroke of good luck.

He wasn’t coming onto Mycroft by saying the other was a nicer guy outside of work though. It was true; Mycroft outside of work seemed less uptight, less formal, and all around less defensive, and (dare he say) more human.

The other man had actually _laughed_. Greg had thought from his previous encounters that Mycroft was devoid of a sense of humor, but the man laughed, like everyone else did. And he had a nice laugh, a deep chuckle that Greg immediately liked. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.

Yeah, he was prone to over-indulging Sherlock, and had essentially created the monster that they both had to deal with on a regular basis, this man-child who wanted what he wanted and wanted it now. He was also a bit of a lordly prat who abused his powers just because he could. But Greg could see how much he cared for Sherlock. And mostly he abused his powers to keep Sherlock safe, which was an arduous task in itself, now that he had the chance to experience it.

Sherlock was always diving into things headlong. He had no concept of self-preservation (thankfully he knew some form of martial arts or another), he had no care for the safety of his co-workers (Greg had to often dodge bullets or knives because Sherlock decided to barge in), and he definitely didn’t care about the safety of the public at all (Really? Flushing acid down the pipes?) To make matters worse, he had a habit of defying the laws of quantum mechanics and of vanishing the moment people took their eyes off him. It was little wonder that Mycroft ended up obsessively worried over the younger Holmes, to the extent of putting him under surveillance.

 

* * *

“You have a silly smile on your face.” Sherlock said, irritating as usual.

“Yeah? I’m having a good day.” Greg retorted.

“Nice to note you enjoy the occasional triple homicide like I do.” Sherlock said blandly, drawing stares from the other officers at the scene for his inappropriate remarks.  
“It’s not the homicide, Holmes.” Greg rolled his eyes.

“Could it be the fact that you’re going on a date with my brother?” Sherlock asked, Greg’s battered phone suddenly in his hand, showing him the message. His eyes were simultaneously smug, and curious, and concerned.

“God damn it, Sherlock! It’s not a date!” Greg hissed as he grabbed at his phone, putting it back into his pocket. “It’s just lunch.”

“It’s a lunch date then.” Sherlock was nonchalant. “You have arranged a meeting, hence, it is a date.”

Greg scowled, and said, “It’s just lunch.”

“Nothing is ever ‘just’ something with Mycroft.” Sherlock said, vaguely, looking back at the corpses. “You should be cautious.”

Well, that _certainly_ put a damper on his mood.


	5. Extravagance and Interactions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft dates Lestrade. Lestrade has lunch with Mycroft. Sherlock knows exactly what Mycroft's doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5, as a 2013 present to you all! <3 Thank you so much for your comments and kudos!

Gregory wasn’t aware that extravagant amounts equaling to his budget for food for an entire week could be spent in just one lunch in an expensive, Michelin starred sushi restaurant in Mayfair. He still felt a little light-headed at how easily Mycroft Holmes seemed to spend his money, though he reasoned that it was likely due to the fact that Mycroft probably had never spent time without money.

  
He ran his fingers through his hair, as Mycroft signed the credit card bill with nary a glance at the total sum, but Gregory knew that it was roughly somewhere in the low hundreds.

  
Being friends with Mycroft certainly came with benefits, but it also gave Greg a little bit of an inferiority complex. Seeing the other man spend his money in such a seemingly careless manner made Greg worry about his own budget and his impending separation.

  
Yet, Mycroft was nothing but courteous throughout their lunch. The man was obviously well educated and could speak eloquently about a series of topics, but only chose to speak about what Gregory knew best, mundane things like sports and current affairs, as well as about crime. Greg didn’t find it condescending like he normally would have, but thought it was rather polite, in a Holmesian way. It was more than easy for Mycroft to start talking about philosophy, or psychology, or whatever obscure little interests that he liked, rather like Sherlock and deduction, but the other refrained from it to talk to Greg at his level. And he did talk at Greg’s level. His sentence structures, the detective noted, had been changed slightly, and Mycroft wasn’t exploiting his extensive vocabulary like he normally would have. The topic of what Sherlock was up to was carefully skirted around; they both knew that Sherlock’s doings and un-doings were a potential trigger point for them. They came to a silent agreement to just let it be, and agree to disagree. 

Both men were surprised at how well they got along, despite the initial difficulties. They had plenty of similarities, even though they came from very different backgrounds. When they discussed education, Mycroft was quick to express his disdain for the behavior of his schoolmates in Eton. Gregory was more than a little perplexed, but soon found out that Mycroft was as much an outsider to the upper classes as Gregory was.

  
He was born and bred in the North, and had been sent to London for his education, a complete stranger to the upper echelons of London society. Mycroft privately denounced them as spoilt, extravagant and pampered, before noting wryly, “I have become what I most despise, unfortunately.”  Greg had laughed at that comment, and listened as Mycroft also noted his disappointment that Sherlock had to face the same troubles as he. Sherlock was not only a genius, but also the shy, introverted kind that had become an easy target for bullying, causing him to retaliate in an antagonistic manner, thus forming his abrasive veneer of current times.

  
Greg nodded in sympathy and told him of growing up in a council estate, and the trouble a child could easily get into without parents to keep an adequate eye on them. Mycroft envied his freedom; Greg argued that a country estate was a far freer and safer place to roam than the streets of a crowded city. The desolation of a country estate was also its saving grace, providing hours of fascination for two young boys with huge imaginations and even larger intellects to exhaust themselves in a relatively safe manner. If brought up in the city, Greg mused, Sherlock might have been even more rebellious than he was now, simply because of the possible bad influences that might have gotten to him at a much earlier age. Mycroft shuddered at the thought.

  
Then they moved on to their teen years, and music. Gregory pronounced his teenage self an “aimless idiot, too obsessed with punk and anarchy to be bothered to study”, and Mycroft confessed listening to punk music, until he faced his father’s vehement disapproval. Mycroft secreted his vinyls away, and never mentioned any other form of music other than classical ever again. They liked much of the same bands, and Greg’s lips curled into a slow smile before he suggested Mycroft should unearth his vinyls, and they could have a little evening of booze and music.

  
Mycroft agreed, to both their surprise, and soon found a date for both of them to meet up at Greg’s temporary flat, where he kept an old gramophone.

 

* * *

  
Sherlock proceeded to ignore the corpse in favor of staring at Greg, which prompted Sally to make plenty of sarcastic remarks about how he was going to murder them all.  
Sherlock continued to stare at Greg in his usual unnerving manner throughout the time that Greg was briefing him about the case, before saying, “Your lunch date went well.”

  
Instantly, all the eyes of the team were turned on him, and Greg rolled his eyes, “Yes, it did, Sherlock.”

  
“Well, good. I don’t think the Middle East can handle extra stress from a failed lunch date.” Sherlock nodded, and went to direct his full attention to the corpse.

  
Sally laughed and said, “What’s the Middle East got to do with Greg?”

  
“Greg is dating my brother.” Sherlock said, with a malicious gleam in his eyes, watching and savoring Sally’s expression.

  
“I’m not dating your brother!” Greg growled, shaking Sherlock, “I told you, it was lunch!”

  
“To a Michelin star restaurant at lunch hour.” Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow at Greg.

  
Sally stared at Greg with her eyes wide, “Not that I’m on the Freak’s side or anything, but it really does sound like a date. And it’s a date by people who want to pretend it’s not a date.”

  
Sherlock folded his arms and smirked triumphantly at Greg. The older man groaned and said, “Look, children, I can’t be bothered why you two assume it’s a date, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s not. Alright? Mycroft’s used to eating haute cuisine; I can’t possibly ask him to the nearest pub and call for a pint. Now, can we actually pay attention to the corpse here or are you lot going to continue to try to dissect my social life?”

  
Sally had the grace to look ashamed, but Sherlock merely gave the body a dismissive glance and said, “Boring.”

  
Greg rolled his eyes, “Solved it then?”

  
“It’s her lover.” Sherlock said. Greg nodded, and told Sally to do the relevant work while he tied up loose ends with Sherlock.

  
The moment Sally left, Sherlock turned back to Greg, “I told you, Greg. Nothing is ever just something with Mycroft. What do you plan to do?”

  
“What? Plan?” Greg stuck his hands in his coat and looked Sherlock in the eye, “What for?”

  
“Well, you had better. Mycroft always plans at least five steps ahead, and when he’s in good form, it’s always at least ten.”

  
Greg frowned, “Look, there’s no need to plan things like friendships. It just happens, and you just follow the course of nature.”

  
“Is that what you told yourself when you got married?” Sherlock asked.

  
Greg’s eyes narrowed, and he leveled a glare at Sherlock.  The younger man blinked at him, confused, not getting why it was so insulting. Greg counted to ten in his head, then said, his voice rougher than normal in his irritation, “Look, Sherlock. That’s not the kind of thing you say to people, a’right? It’s just not done.”

  
“Oh.” A little crease appeared between his brows, “It’s not… acceptable?”

  
“Not in the least. If you’d been anyone else, I’d have punched you. Lucky for you, I know you well enough.” Greg said gruffly, turning away to tell Anderson to get a move on and stop flirting with Sally.

  
Sherlock stood there, musing it over, “I didn’t mean it as an insult. I was genuinely curious to see if that was true; that most people don’t plan out their relationships.”

  
“Most people don’t.” Greg said, and nodded to Anderson and Sally, “Sometimes things just happen.”

  
“I don’t quite understand.” Sherlock’s lower lip jutted out in a way that told Greg he was nibbling on the inside of it.

  
“It’s just, emotions are difficult to chart and plan for. Most of the time we just… wing it. See where it goes.” Greg explained as he walked out of the scene, “Sometimes it turns out well, happily ever after, hurrah. Other times…” He looked at the corpse, “Other times, it doesn’t.”

  
“Human interactions are a hassle. I shall find it a chore to engage in one.” Sherlock pronounced his conclusion into the brisk, cool air, before he strolled off.

 

* * *

  
Mycroft stared at the paper in his hand, not seeing the words. His mind was fixated with every tick of the clock, every soft sound counting down to one second less till he saw Gregory again.

  
Not for the first time, Mycroft mused about their lunch meeting at the restaurant, and thought of how Greg found him amusing, and thought he was clever.

  
Very rarely did anyone think he was amusing. He was usually seen as being too serious, too pedantic. Laughter stopped when he entered the room, and conversations died an instant death. It was strange and lonely, being isolated from even his own colleagues by virtue of his intellect.

  
And since the only person who saw his cleverness was often him, he was underwhelmed by his own intelligence, which was exceedingly critical of itself, picking apart his own solutions from the previous day, sometimes even the previous hour.

  
He contemplated the possible paths and trajectories this budding relationship would take them. He would test the waters, and if Gregory was amenable, they could progress further as friends, then … perhaps, more.

  
Mycroft didn’t let himself dwell too long on “more”. Experience taught him that the higher his hopes were, the more disappointed he ended up, and the longer it took to recover. Contrary to Sherlock’s allegations that Mycroft was the epitome of unlovable, Mycroft had been in several relationships, but none of them survived the trials that came with Mycroft’s job. If it wasn’t the constant travel, the danger or the security sweeps that Mycroft bore with grace every alternate day in his flat, it was certainly the fact that all his lovers had 24/7 surveillance… which made it very difficult to cheat. Two had tried, and promptly lost their citizenship, among other various troubles.

  
But they would have many issues to work through. Despite Gregory’s apparently casual manner during the lunch, he could see that Greg was uncomfortable with the obvious extravagance of his spending. It was little surprise, considering that Mycroft was used to a pampered lifestyle since birth, while Gregory still lived by the constraints of a budget. Mycroft had little doubt that with time, Gregory would get used to Mycroft’s lifestyle.

  
Their previous encounters also showed Mycroft that he needed to improve his communication with Gregory, and he had to learn not to mince his words and be too verbose with the other man. Gregory was direct, and efficient. Mycroft needed to communicate in his way, or face being misconstrued all the time. Mycroft recalled Gregory’s stern expression as he was told off by the other man during Sherlock’s flat hunt, and sighed, promising himself not to make such a mistake again. Gregory had a certain attractiveness about him when he was upset, but Mycroft didn’t want his anger directed at him at all.

  
They had plenty in common, as evidenced by their lunch date which ran two hours over their actual allotted hour, but were also opposites in a fair amount of things.

  
Mycroft was expedient, and he felt the ends more often than not justified the means. He was not above doing something that straddled the grey area between legal and not to get things done. Greg believed in the law above all else, he wanted to believe that all criminals got punished, and strove to make sure it got done. Mycroft knew he needed to be delicate about this, and to do his best to make sure that Gregory didn’t see his above-the-law approach to solving problems.

  
Mycroft was indulgent towards Sherlock, his younger and only brother, and his closest kin. Greg believed that a firm hand would get Sherlock to behave more. He had a point. Under Gregory’s watchful eye, Sherlock seemed less likely to act out, or get himself high on some cocktail of drugs just to “experiment”. Gregory was the elder sibling that Sherlock needed, and Mycroft could never be. Mycroft had been too exhausted by his work to discipline and keep his younger brother in line.

  
But if opposites attracted, Mycroft was pretty sure they were headed for a spectacular collision course. It might be dangerous, but it would never be boring, and that was reason enough to proceed.

  
Like his brother, Mycroft Holmes hated to be bored.


	6. Reciprocity - An Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft sat in Greg’s flat. 
> 
> Mycroft should hate everything about it.
> 
> It was the antithesis of his own flat, his own life.

Mycroft sat in Greg’s flat.

It was small; Mycroft estimated that the flat was barely half the size of his own abode. It was old; the sofa was so old it sank down several inches when Mycroft sat down, and the paint on the ceiling was starting to flake slightly. There might even be a bit of mold in the distant corner. Greg only had mugs, and no tea cups. The man sat in an old armchair with his legs hanging off the side, still in his suit, but the jacket was discarded over the back of the armchair, and the shirt un-tucked, with the top two buttons undone.

Mycroft should hate everything about it.

It was the antithesis of his own flat, his own life.

Yet, as the old vinyl player blared out The Cure, and Greg sang along, Mycroft couldn’t help but let a corner of his lips quirk into a smile.

The vinyl record was his, a remnant of his vague and brief stint in teenage years of trying to etch out his own personality. His father put a swift stop to it, threatening to break and throw out the records if Mycroft ever played them again.

They had been left under his bed at the Manor until he got his own home, then shoved into the back of a storage closet and forgotten about until Greg brought up their childhood and teenage years.

Greg had swiftly wrangled a promise out of him to drop by Greg’s flat and play the old vinyl records, especially when he heard that Mycroft had some especially hard to find copies of certain singles and albums.

For some inexplicable reason, Mycroft obliged the other man, after a few weeks of stalling that were partially his fault, and mostly not. A string of murders and a series of international incidents made it difficult for the two of them to keep in any form of contact, and it was almost a month later that they got hold of each other – or rather, Gregory got hold of him with a text.

**Hey, you promised me a listen of your vinyls. Not trying to destroy evidence of a normal youth, are you? –GL**

Mycroft received that in the midst of a meeting, and ignoring manners and curious glances, immediately replied.

**Not in the slightest, Gregory. I paid a fair deal for them, and they’re now worth more than the initial investment. Why would I destroy them? –MH**

**Better not. When are you free? I just finished a case. That requires celebrations with friends. –GL**

**I am aware. The press has been very generous with their laudations. –MH**

**According to Anthea, I’m free two evenings later, bar international incidents. –MH**

**That’ll be perfect. 7, my place? –GL**

**Certainly, Gregory. I must say, I’m honored to be considered a friend. –MH**

**What? Why? I’m just a bloke at the police station. –GL**

**I have never had a friend before. Allies, yes, classmates, certainly, but no friends. You might be able to guess why, from my recounts of school life. –MH**

**Well, now you do. Saturday, 7pm. –GL**

So it came to be that Mycroft was standing on Greg’s doorstep at 6.58 pm precisely, holding a cake-box sized parcel of neatly wrapped vinyl records, and wondering if he should knock, or press the doorbell. Greg’s last message brought a smile to his face the instant he read it, and the cheeriness carried on throughout the week, startling and unnerving his coworkers, who were used to the sometimes sullen and mostly stoic side of Mycroft.

He pressed the door bell tentatively, only to hear someone stumbling over a series of items, and a “Hold it! Be right there!”

The door whipped open, and Greg’s face lit up with a grin. Mycroft found himself returning the smile, unconsciously, feeling slightly awkward, because it was ages since he truly did smile from pleasure. Most of the time he smiled in a vaguely threatening manner, although always polite, and it warned his opponents that he was on to them and kept them in check. Sometimes he managed a polite grimace when trying to clean up the messes that his brother inevitably made. But he hadn’t smiled in joy for years.

He hoped that he didn’t look like a shark about to devour a hapless fish.

“Come on in.” Greg grinned. He opened the door wider, into the chaos that lay within. The older man gave a little wince and said, “Sorry, I’m still excavating my records. So, what do you deduce?”

Mycroft looked around, and quipped with a small quirk of his mouth, “I deduce that you desperately require a better organization system.”

Greg grinned, a slow curve appearing on his lips as his eyes lit, “I’ll bet you see much more than just that.”

“I do see more than just that, but would you really want me to deduce your entire life in mere seconds?” Mycroft asked, his eyes scanning the room again, taking in all the details.

Greg paused and reflected upon it for the moment, then said, “Nah. I know you know everything about me, but I rather pretend that you don’t.” He smiled, “Nothing against you, but having Sherlock deduce things about my wife and my divorce is taxing as it is.”

Mycroft nodded, and that was that.  

 

* * *

 

Gregory was surprised when Mycroft just let it be. He had always pegged Mycroft down for the curious, intrusive type, considering the cameras and the bugging devices, as well as the almost supernatural ability to know what Greg actually wanted to eat on any particular day.

And here he was, taking things as they came.

The other man cradled a cup of warm Earl Grey tea, his body comfortably nestled on the old sofa that Greg had lugged around since his university days. There was a slight smile on his face, not the fake ones that he often used in polite company, nor the nervous little grimace he gave at the door (and whenever Sherlock got himself in yet another scrap again).

It was a smile that spoke a little of nostalgia, and fond memories.

They sat in a comfortable silence, and Greg liked it, the presence of Mycroft, warm and comforting and constant somehow.

“I haven’t heard that since I was in university, after I snuck them all out with me.” Mycroft mused, with a soft chuckle.

“That’s a sin, you should be listening to it almost every day.” Greg retorted with a bit of a grin; imagining Mycroft in a wood-paneled, sound-proof office, singing along to Bowie and making foreign dignitaries wait outside as he finished up the song was absurd… but strangely endearing.

“I can imagine explaining that to Anthea.” Mycroft tried to suppress his smile, but his eyes glinted with humor.

Greg burst out laughing, and the sound echoed in the barren, empty, lifeless living room, then choked out, “I can’t imagine her reaction-”

Mycroft tried to suppress his laughter, before yielding to it as well. "She might think I've finally gone mad from all the stress in my life."

"Early retirement for you, Mr Holmes." Gregory quipped.

"Back North with the crazies-" Mycroft chuckled.

"You wouldn't be out of place with that brother of yours." Greg gave a snort of laughter.

"That is true." Mycroft calmed himself with a sip of tea. "Mummy tends towards hysteria too, but she is a delicate type."

"I can see how it's passed down to Sherlock." Greg said drolly.

"Father was prone to violent explosions of temper."

"Well then, Sherlock's got it all, hasn't he?" Greg raised an eyebrow at Mycroft, mirroring his usual sardonic expression.

Mycroft buried his smile in another sip of tea. "He certainly has, it appears."

"What've you got then?" Greg asked.

"Father's hypertension, and Mummy's infatuation with carnivorous plants." Mycroft observed, "I've also inherited the house, the money, and my little brother."

"Quite the legacy." Greg grinned.

"Yes, quite."

"Are you sure your last name's really not Addams?"

"Do I look like a Wednesday to you?"

Gregory looked taken aback for a moment when Mycroft got the reference, before laughing, "No, not at all."

For the rest of the evening, Greg found himself sneaking glances at Mycroft, still surprised, while the other man just sat with a pleased little smirk on his face, sipping tea.  


End file.
